


Bruises and Lightning Bugs

by twopinchesofcinnamon



Series: Sanders Sides One-Shots [4]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Nighttime strolls, References to Abuse, Stars, logans parents are not the best, niether are virgils but that's not too apparent here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 12:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15908586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twopinchesofcinnamon/pseuds/twopinchesofcinnamon
Summary: Logan somehow got himself kicked out of the house again. He assumes his usual midnight stroll will be strikingly uneventful.He's not wrong, but strikingly uneventful can be tolerable with the right company.





	Bruises and Lightning Bugs

**Author's Note:**

> Dude I don't even know where this random ass idea came from. Basically I wanted to write something where Virgil sort of has a big brother role but it kinda just turned into this. I don't love it but I like to post whatever I write so here you go
> 
> (Original Idea: kid!fic asthmatic Logan and Virgil who each suffer abuse and meet each other on a dock under the stars after being kicked out)

The door slams with, in the eyes of a tiny nine-year-old, the force of an angry storybook giant.

(Which Logan definitely doesn't read about, because storybooks are irrelevant and real literature is found in history books and news articles. That is where actual happenings are documented.)

Mother would be proud.

Logan clenches his grubby fists and glances at his years old watch. He finds the perpetual tick of the second hand strangely calming. It's nearly six in the evening, meaning he has around five hours to kill before his parents will allow him back inside. He glances wistfully at the Mexican restaurant down the street (Maria's; it's Logan's favorite because of the historical newspapers that are tacked on the every wall,) wishing that he had thought to grab money from his desk (he's sure his past self hid a twenty in one of his textbooks, where he knows his mother won't look.)

After all, bad boys don't even get leftovers, so he must fend for himself until morning. 

And, Logan only dares to ask himself when there's no one around who could somehow read his thoughts, why is it that not memorizing the first three chapters of his new textbook makes him a bad boy? From his understanding, nine-year-old doesn't equal ninth grade.

But he hastily swipes away the stray thought; he deserves this—his parents know best.

So instead of lingering, sure his father will inevitably yell at him from the white-washed window, he trots onto the musty sidewalk and begins to stroll with a goal in mind. (See, there's absolutely nothing worse than walking aimlessly because whatever work is being done amounts to nothing. He learned that one from Great Aunt Sofie, a proud Stanford graduate.) He sets his thoughts on the rickety dock by the lake and continues his miniature journey, the subtle buzz and titter of crickets becoming more prominent by the minute.

Ten or so minutes in, the July lightning bugs start flickering on and off like broken bulbs (of which he's all too familiar with.) They float lazily past him and land for a second or two before hovering forward. He gazes at them as he pads on, until the reflection of the fiery sunset is visible in the lake now in front of him, evolving into a hazy purple at the divide between sky and water. The lake is lined on three sides by towering trees, guarding the barren houses within them. Everyone has turned in for the evening, so it's just Logan, the hissing bugs minding their own business, and the lake creatures not quite visible to the eye as of now (he knows they're there, though. Sometimes he's grounded during the day too.)

Logan carefully steps onto the dock as it sloshes even from his light weight. He slips off his shoes and sits at edge, dipping his feet in the cold water and mutely giggling as little fish rise to the surface to nip at his toes. Off to the side, bubbles and ripples form around a baby turtle, the mother rising just after it. Logan closes his eyes and lays back with a sigh, almost completely ignoring the soft growls of his yearning stomach.

"You're in my spot," a dreary voice observes from behind him.

Logan yelps quietly and scrapes his knee on a jagged piece of the dock as he whips around to examine the visitor. He grits his teeth at the unexpected pain and eyes the newcomer with caution.

It's a young man who seems to be five to six years older than Logan. Dark eyeshadow lines the outside of his hazel eyes, fading from lavender to grey. Most shocking is his maroon shaded hair and the silver and golden earrings that jingle like bells on the sides of his face as he comes forward to sit at the dock. Noticing Logan's discarded shoes, he places his on the edge as well, taking a considerable amount of time uniting the sea of laces. Logan himself inches to the left, unsure of this stranger.

The boy finishes and points a finger at him, repeating, "You're in my spot, kid."

Right.

Logan grabs his loafers, moves to leave, and mumbles a rushed, "Sorry, I'll be on my way."

A hand grabs his wrist in a surprisingly gentle way, but he still instinctively braces himself for a scolding hit. It never comes.

Of course, why would this boy do that?

The boy removes his hand cautiously and looks Logan in the eye, "I'm kidding, you know? You can stay here if you like?"

Logan stares at his feet and reluctantly relaxes back onto the splintering wood, clutching his knee.

The boy's eyebrows knit together as he glances downward and rifles through his jacket pockets, "You want me to fix that up for you, kid?"

Logan follows his gaze to his hand, now coated in off-red blood and flecks of dirt and gravel from sitting. 

He nods and tentatively holds out his knee so that it reflects the now blue-pink illumination of the sunset. Offhandedly, he is aware that his mother will reprimand him for allowing a stranger to help him—it's certainly not the prideful thing to do.

The boy pulls a roll of bandages out of his pocket with a triumphant "ah-ha" and sets them down on the dock.

"Do you want me to...?" he motions at Logan's arm, his earrings clinking together, scaring the turtles back underwater.

He nods again.

The boy gingerly pulls Logan's knee up and wraps the bandage around it with skill, as if he's done this a thousand times before. His nails are coated in shiny black polish, of which Logan would not be caught dead wearing, because boys with dyed hair, and nail polish and makeup are the worst kind of boys to be around (a word of advice from his Grandpa Berrymore, a proud Stanford graduate.) 

With a final tug, the stranger rips off the rest and holds out a hand, which seems to have taken it's fair share of scratches and scabs.

"The name's Virgil."

Logan stares at the hand. He knows that he shouldn't shake a stranger's hand, especially one who wears earrings, because they might "contaminate" him (a quote taken directly from his dear mother, a proud Stanford graduate.) But, against his brain and childhood thus far, he deems Virgil safe, as he has been helpful up until now, and grasps his hand, giving the firm handshake that's been drilled into him.

Virgil raises his paintbrush-y eyebrows, "And your name is?"

Now, Logan muses, since he's already shaken this boy's hand, what can be so bad about sharing his name? Although, since one should never shake a stranger's hand, to give his name is a far worse offense. However, in a short moment of panic, a rare occurrence for Logan, the word seems to topple out of his mouth all on its own.

"L-logan."

Why did he have to stutter? Stuttering is a sign of weakness; it makes him seem inarticulate (which he was informed of around two-ish years ago by his Cousin Imelda, a proud Standford graduate.)

"Logan," Virgil rolls the name across his tongue, decorated with an intricate piercing, "Where do you live?"

"Up by Maria's," he answers, hearing his mother's disapproving voice scorning the unnecessary reveal of personal information.

"Maria's!" His shadowed face brightens suddenly and he sets a finger to his lips in giddy dreaminess, "They have the best enchiladas in this entire fucking state."

Logan freezes at the strong language, but can't help but agree. Those enchiladas are quite delicious (he's only had them once, since the good kind come off the kids menu and he stopped being a kid four years ago. And the one time he did enjoy the delicacy, it was because the owner of the restaurant sat down and ate with his family. That was the first time Logan really talked with another kid his age—Roman, he was called. How could Logan forget, with his flamboyant personality and tendency to yell at the most inopportune times? Naturally, Mother declared that the last time he'd see little Roman Valdez—and he hasn't conversed with the boy since.)

Realizing that Logan isn't going to peruse conversation, Virgil says "I live over by the quarry."

Logan quickly does the math in his mind; So around ten minutes away by walking, two by car. Not that it matters.

"It's that crap apartment building with like, maybe five rooms with fully functional plumbing and AC. Ours is not one of the five."

At this vast over exaggeration (because Logan knows exactly which apartment he's referencing, and it's not that bad), Logan finds himself laughing for the first time in forever. It's funny how such a simple humorous statement can set him off (he thinks it may be a dam of sorts; he hasn't been given anything to laugh at freely in so long.) But pushes the foreign sound into the depths of his stomach on instinct, because laughing is childish, unless it's in a condescending way (a prospect that was introduced to him by his brother, Harold, a proud Stanford graduate.)

Virgil snickers at his snort-laugh that is the result of trying to contain his giggles. The purple clad boy pats the dock and looks out at the sunset.

"You don't have to sit so far away."

Huh. Logan hadn't realized how much he'd shied away. He scoots up to Virgil, not saddling too close but not so far that he appears to be skittish.

"Do you want me to bandage the other one?"

Logan glances up at Virgil's worried face and follows his line of vision. He wasn't careful enough apparently, since his sleeve is pushed back too much. He quickly stuffs it down again.

"I'm fine," he mumbles (which is almost, but not quite as bad as stuttering.)

He is.

Virgil locks eyes with the shimmering lake, a knowing expression donning his face.

And they sit.

Around them, colors fade into the atmosphere and the turtles retire to sleep. The birds cease chirping but the fireflies rise in abundance. The sun waves them goodbye as it finally sinks under and the stars twinkle daringly, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding bugs. 

Logan unwinds himself; he brushes off the stress and the expectations and he forgets why he's here in the first place (and, dare he say, he hardly cares about Stanford in this moment.) He loses care for the fact that he's just sitting with some stranger who could be housing all kinds of ill intentions. But this stranger has already done so much more than anyone else he knows. 

"It's time for me to go," Logan mutters, not needing a watch at all. He isn't sure if he should alert Virgil of his departure or not, but he does so anyways.

"Alright," Virgil smiles, feather-light, a metal nub poking out of his tongue. He holds out his hand.

"Goodbye," Logan stares, shaking it and positioning himself for the walk back.

"Woah, kid. Hold up," Virgil grabs his wrist again (he doesn't flinch,) a tad panicked, "I just need some help getting up." 

Logan cocks his head to the side.

Virgil shakes his head sighs in an almost fond manner, which is downright baffling to Logan. 

"Just—Let me walk you home."


End file.
